Hold on to every word as it’s uttered
There is magic spoken in each shudder
In my palm, I grip firmly the truth
My lips speak little more than falsehood
What of this brokenness offends you so?
Is my maimed heart such a sore?
There is no relief from the corruption that ensues
Five thousand years of leprosy, and thirty of Christ
You ask, what is this diseased little thing
I say it is my heart, it hasn’t been treated particularly well
You ask, why is it scruff, rough around the edges
I say it is from being worn on my sleeves
Look at me, I serve as a repository of things
When it gets too much, I utter it in obscenities
I am the wanderer, purposeless and unkempt
Failing to live up to my ideals, of kindness and love
When I feel I move on, my heart congeals
A reminder of things better left unwritten and unsaid
I call it poetry, you call it a lack of self-respect
I say it is art, you christen it a drag
You say it lacks substance or thought
That I must travel to a thousand cities before I can write a poem
I say this is my heart, this is my heart tho
You say it’s just words strung along
Isn’t that true for most things tho
Meaningless oddities strung along
It might not be a sonnet, it might not have meter or flow
This is my heart, this is my heart tho
If it were a process, I’d let it go
A sickness? I’d seek a cure
‘Tis not all that, ’tis my heart though
However unseemly and uninspired, this is my heart though
A DESI MUFFIN 